Although it is still soft from summer,
The Macademized pavement
Slides into the womb of darkness.
Angels are flying through the heat
Brandishing their spider webs,
Invisible nets stretched yawning.
My mother has no fear,
Whether pouncing upon unbutchered supper
Or flogging invasion from the nest.
The dance of the seraphs is polyrhythmic
They stomp ad hoc and randomly:
Candlewax wings swoop through the wine;
Feathered fingers strain monlight from gravel.